The 37 Year Old Virgin
by Dreaming-Of-A-Nightmare
Summary: Sherlock had his suspicions. Time to confront John on the pressing matter of his sex life. .:. an AU that features demisexual!virgin!John and homo!experienced!Sherlock. for BrokenDeathAngel on devvyart. fourshot.
1. Initial Discovery

**A/N: Yes, this is an AU that features demisexual!virgin!John (and homo!experienced!Sherlock). Because of this (remove spaces): brokendeathangel. deviantart. com/art/BlushieBlushieBlushie-297810116**

**And because this is a kink I didn't know I had. :'D**

**...Um, I think this will be a two- or three-shot story. I'll have to see what more comes to me tomorrow. But for right now? It's bedtime for me; it's nearly one AM.  
**

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At first, Sherlock didn't think much of it. John never showed any interest in dating women (or men, either, for that matter) and always shied away from people who tried flirting with him. Sherlock guessed it was because of a bad breakup or something of the like, something that put him off relationships for a while.

Sherlock, on the other hand, continually dated men as he always has, sticking with them for as long as it took before they couldn't handle his antics any longer or became too jealous of Sherlock's friendship with John and, inevitably, ended it. Sherlock never minded; he never fell in love with any of them, and only liked getting a good shag every now and then, if he could.

But as his boyfriends faded into near non-existence, Sherlock realised it was all because of John, really. John baffled him a little; he seemed to not even masturbate regularly, and it was a curious thing. Why didn't John get off with anyone, even for a one-night stand? It was rather normal for a bachelor his age if he didn't want anything too committed.

So, one night, Sherlock approached John while he was readying for bed, pyjamas on, bedside lamp dimly glowing, and a pillow in his hands as he fluffed it.

Habitually, Sherlock didn't knock as he entered, but the door was mostly ajar anyhow. He walked up to John, sat down beside him, and bluntly asked, "Why don't you go out on dates or wank regularly?"

John blinked. Pink tinted his cheeks and he looked away. "Why are Earth are you asking me that? And how is it any of your business?"

"We live together and are close friends. I should think it would be obvious that your sex life would interest me, and considering how open I am with my own, there's no reason why you can't do the same," Sherlock reasoned with a shrug. He peered down at John and cocked an eyebrow. "Well?"

John fumbled with the pillow and his blush increased noticeably. "It's not very important. Can I just go to bed, please? Sarah asked for a favor – for me to fill in for her at the hospital tomorrow – and I'd hate to fall asleep in my office again."

"Sarah. She's a perfect example, I should think. You have had multiple encounters with this woman and I'm sure by the flustered way you've talked about her in the past that she has implied her desires to be more than merely friends with you, but you have rejected her advances. Why? Is she unattractive?" Sherlock pried.

John huffed and pounded the pillow in his lap. "No! –Yes? Christ, I don't know. She's pretty, I suppose, but I just… don't feel about her that way. Or much of anyone I come across."

"And you don't masturbate often. I would know if you did," Sherlock added, and John flushed a deep scarlet.

"That's horrifying. But I guess you would be able to tell, wouldn't you? By overheard ragged breathing or something in my face, like my dilated pupils or flushed cheeks or something. Yeesh," John mumbled. He shook his head. "Is there a point to any of this? Because I would really like to go to bed, Sherlock." And to prove his point, he tossed his pillow against his headboard, watching it as it landed where he wanted it to.

"I just find it interesting, that's all. But does this mean you have never been with anyone, then? You've never found someone appealing enough to sleep with? Is your libido so weak that you have no cravings to touch even yourself?" Sherlock whispered, leaning closer to John.

The doctor blushed again and scowled. Shoving his flatmate away, he spat, "Piss off, Sherlock."

"Are you a virgin, John? Because if so, that's remarkable for someone in their late thirties. Very rare indeed. I should think I'd be envious of the first person you will ever give the permission to touch you that way," Sherlock admitted, and John couldn't hear a thing more without his face setting on fire.

"Yes! Okay? Yes, I'm a virgin! Are you satisfied now?" And he grabbed his pillow and chucked it at Sherlock's head, but the detective caught it reflexively. The detective was momentarily wide-eyed and faintly pink; he hadn't expected to receive the truth. "And quit saying rubbish like that!"

"Why? Is it not a good thing to say?" he pressed, but he knew the answer. It wasn't a very good thing to say. It definitely didn't sound like something a friend would say in comfort, and Sherlock wasn't entirely sure he meant it as such anyhow. He intended for it not to come out at all, but once it had, he couldn't very well take it back. And it was the truth, anyway. He would be jealous of anyone who deflowered John in any degree of the term. As of late, his boyfriends have all been much less appealing in comparison to his flatmate, and Sherlock would be lying if he said he wasn't interested in changing his type of relationship to John to something a tad more romantic.

"No! Not a good thing at all!" John said with a raised voice. "Now kindly get out of my room before I kick your ass out myself."

"I apologise, John," Sherlock murmured as he stood and moved to wrap his arms around his friend, sitting back down with John more or less in his lap, feeling frozen, stunned. "I didn't mean to offend you. Your virginity is yours to keep for as long as you like. Your sexuality – which appears to be asexual – is also yours to claim on your own terms. You're right; it was wrong of me to pry."

"You're just saying that because you don't want your only friend ticked off at you," John grunted as he sunk into Sherlock's embrace and sighed. "But I'll take the apology anyway. Thanks for that, even if you were a total prick about it."

"I meant what I just said, and I should think it redeems me," Sherlock smirked, his nose brushing the back of John's head, and he could smell his shampoo and natural body odor merging with it chemically. He loved John's scent. "But you know, John, if you ever were to… If you wanted, and if you felt more comfortable than with a stranger, I'm right here."

John scrunched up his face and hid behind Sherlock's arms. "Are you offering to sleep with me? Take away my virginity?"

"Don't think of it that way," Sherlock said with a wince. "Think of it as… an option. An option to expand your horizons. I would do that for you, if you wished it."

"You're basically telling me that you're the friend to experiment with if I so chose," John remarked with a snort. "Huh. Don't know what to say to that. People already assume we're a couple."

"And they aren't wrong. We are a pair that is often seen together as a package deal, one not often without the other; unless, of course, you are running errands or I am on a date, but that hasn't happened in a while. So they aren't wrong to assume that. And I am not the average person, so our friendship is not within the norm most people have in mind for friendships," Sherlock relayed matter-of-factly.

"Humph," was the doctor's only response. He couldn't think how to argue that when it was utterly spot-on. He sighed then and wormed his way out of Sherlock's arms. "Okay, that's it; I'm going to bed for real. Get out, you." And he waved him away without really looking at him.

Sherlock smiled. "All right, John. Goodnight." And before the doctor can stop him, Sherlock stood and leaned forward, pecking John on the lips. John stilled in place and didn't move until after Sherlock left.

And when he did move, he crawled into bed, rolled onto his side, and touched his mouth before pinching his legs together and stuffing his hand between them to quell the odd tingle that was sent from the action. He may not have interest in much of anyone, but Sherlock offering himself was an idea that left John's heart racing, and he couldn't say it wasn't without arousal, because then he would be fibbing.

Huh. If he wasn't careful, he might take Sherlock up on that offer and cease to be a virgin. But what John would like to know was: why was Sherlock so eager to suggest it, and why would John make an exception for Sherlock?

Oh, bother. These were things he'd rather not think about right before sleeping, because now he might not be able to sleep much at all, and he had to work tomorrow.

_Dammit, Sherlock._


	2. Experimentation

**A/N: The final chapter will be all about the smut, and it will be one of those gentle, first-time fics with a topping!Sherlock involved. Yay~! 8D**

**EDIT: Now improved.  
**

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Since having the revelation of his own sexuality in his teenage years, Sherlock has brushed up on every other sexuality known at the time, and has kept himself up to date with every sexuality finally given a name following then.

Call it an experiment, verification, or whatever pleased the mind, Sherlock decided to elaborate on and test the limits of his newfound discovery about John Watson.

Now, a good friend would probably let sleeping does lie, but Sherlock was a best friend, and best friends did unorthodox things for their friend's overall "greater good" in the end.

So, one morning before John awoke, Sherlock went about printing off and posting various nudes around the flat. Some were of men/trans* men, some of women/trans* women, and all of them were of varying body types and skin colors, to see which caught John's eye. They were all fairly attractive, most having more than one of the loveliest features of their gender and mixed or singular race.

And if none caught John's eyes, Sherlock had a follow-up plan: to make it a point to parade around the flat completely in the nude, going about everyday activities, not being provocative by spreading his legs or displaying a hard-on; no, merely acting as if he would any given day, except without clothing. And see if John reacted any different to Sherlock than he did any other naked person.

(Because he had a hypothesis. Perhaps John wasn't asexual, but instead pansexual; not aren't interested in sex unless it's with someone he held romantic feelings for, despite their gender. Sherlock secretly hoped this was the case; he would like for John to be interested in him in that way, considering the time already elapsed during which Sherlock harboured feelings of that sort for John, but didn't know how to go about it since John seemed so aloof.)

Sherlock watched from behind the morning paper as John stumbled downstairs and entered the kitchen. He kept himself quiet and waited. John, groggy with sleep, didn't seem to notice much at first. But then he gave a little squeak and jumped. He rushed into the living room and exclaimed, "Sherlock! What the fuck is with all these photos?"

"What photos?" Sherlock remarked, turning a page in the paper without reading a thing.

John wasn't pink in the face, merely annoyed. "_These_!" he elaborated as he grabbed a nearby one and fisted it in the air. "These… _porn _photos!"

"They technically aren't pornography; the figures aren't with any other figures in the photographs, and they are in casual standing poses. They are classified as artistic nudes," Sherlock rebuked monotonously.

"Fine. _Artistic nudes,_ then; although I hardly see the bloody difference," John grumbled. He crumpled and tossed down the photo of a blond, model-tall and thin woman in his hand. "Why are they plastered all over our flat?"

"I wanted to witness your reaction to them. Do you find any of them appealing?" Sherlock questioned, scarcely glancing up from his newspaper.

John seemed to sputter for a moment as he looked at Sherlock, then around at each photograph. He blinked, eyed them, and then sighed. "No. They're just people. It's a bit embarrassing, though; I can't imagine how exposed they must feel… It makes me uncomfortable."

"I thought as much," Sherlock replied as he folded his paper and finally stood. "The way you reacted to The Woman some weeks ago told me as much. You looked her purposely in the eye and pleaded for her to wear clothing because it made you uncomfortable, and not in a sexual manner, but instead in an emotional manner. But I wanted to make sure."

And with that, Sherlock gathered up all the photos and tossed them into the rubbish bin.

The follow morning, however, Sherlock didn't bother putting on clothes. He occasionally slept in the nude if he felt too lazy after a late-night shower to put on clothes, and that is precisely how he was that morning. But instead of courteously wrapping himself in his sheets or a robe as he often did, he walked out of his room and went about making coffee in his birthday suit.

When John came down for a cup and some toast for breakfast, he froze in the doorway. This time, he didn't glance over Sherlock's naked form like he did the photos the previous day; he didn't look Sherlock in the eye like he had Irene Adler, either. No, John's eyes furiously scanned up and down Sherlock's body more than once, watching every muscle shift and twitch beneath creamy-pale skin, his eyes lingering rudely too long as Sherlock's private areas, and sweeping over the plane of his back and down his legs more than once, and he swallowed whenever he looked at Sherlock's stomach, and licked his lips when his eyes landed on Sherlock's nipples.

Sherlock said nothing, pretended not to notice, and went about sipping his coffee and moving to sit, legs crossed, in his chair. John hardly moved. His face was pink, his ears burnt red. Finally, he spoke up: "Sh-Sherlock…" he cleared his throat, tore his gaze away, and looked at his bare feet poking out from under his pyjama bottoms. "Sherlock, where are your clothes?"

"Hmm?" Sherlock asked, lifting his eyes to meet John's, who refused to look at him. It took all the strength he could muster not to smirk at his flatmate's reaction. "Oh," he answered himself pretending not to have noticed. "Seems I forgot them."

"Forgot?" John shrieked, but he soon called himself and coughed into a hand, his fists tightly pressing into his chest as he moved to cross his arms. He deadpanned and stared very pointedly at Sherlock's brows. "This is connected to yesterday, isn't it? You're gauging my reaction again. And it's already different, so you're over there analysing me." He adjusted his jaw and closed his mouth with an audible click. "You bastard." And he turned and fled the room.

But not without a semi-formed erection and dilated pupils. Ah, so the virgin could be aroused! And beyond that, Sherlock had gotten through to him.

Perfect. Now there was only one thing left to do about this situation: see if he couldn't resolve it by coaxing John into sex.

It might not have been the most polite thing to do – discover that a friend was a virgin and make it one's goal to eradicate the status – but John would hopefully forgive Sherlock for it in the end, because Sherlock didn't intend to make it a one-time thing, and certainly didn't plan for it to be without a relationship and commitment.


	3. The Science of Seduction

**A/N: Oops, I lied! Gonna break up the final chapter into two, actually. Fits the time/flow better. So there will be one more chapter after this, featuring the smut. Yes. For sure.**

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The first step in his plan was seduction. Sherlock couldn't very well directly state, "Let's sleep together," without scaring John off. As much as this would be the most efficient way of doing things – getting down to business – it only worked in the right atmosphere, such as at a sleazy pub where people were looking for quick lays. John was better than that, and meant more to Sherlock than that.

Another step, one that came later, was the one that proved the sex meant more than plainly sex. He had to make sure his intentions were clear, that John understood the sort of relationship Sherlock wanted them to have. Not "friends with benefits," not "casual" or "friendly" sex, and not simply a one-time thing to "get it out of his system" or to "merely give John experience." It was meant, actually, to be with sentiment. Sherlock cared about John very much, and he wanted to show it. And given the recent topic and trials, it seemed only natural in progression.

Therefore, Sherlock went about surfing the internet for cheesy magazine articles about "wooing your man," because Sherlock knew how to flirt and manipulate men into getting what he wanted, but that was easy because many of them were simpletons compared to John, and were meant for one-night stands or temporary boyfriends to get his dose of affection for a while, and none of it was for what Sherlock had in mind now.

So he went about his research, having to dismiss half of it because he didn't have a vagina or breasts to flaunt or dress up, but thinking he could find ways to give a similar effect with that he does possess. And then some of it was ridiculous, and he knew John wouldn't like it. But the rest was decent, and Sherlock could work with the information.

It appeared that, for Sherlock's needs, he could try three different approaches: subtle flirting/hinting; direct affection; and devilish charm, which may or may not include a bit of manipulation.

Knowing John, he recognised flirting, but didn't appreciate it. He could be charmed, but would dislike the slight manipulation that came with it. Therefore, the direct approach seemed to be the logical one to use.

Sherlock gave it several days before he initiated his seduction technique. He let John think the topic was dropped, that it didn't matter, so that the affect on him would be natural and as casual as possible.

John was watching the telly from the sofa, idly flipping channels whilst typing up a new blog post about a case that happened a couple weeks ago that he never got around to writing, but thought it high time to post now.

Sherlock came in from the bathroom after a shower, towel around his shoulders, damp lounge clothes on – striped trousers, blank white tee – the scent of shampoo and unscented lotion strong on his person. He plopped down onto the sofa and kicked his legs up to bundle up to his chest, his feet sliding beneath John's thigh. He leaned over and peered at the screen. "Why are you bothering to record that case? It was rather uneventful. Too easy."

"It's still something that happened to us, to _me, _and this is a blog about things in my life, so I'm writing it," John replied defensively. He sighed curtly and shut his laptop lid, setting it aside. "What are you doing?" and he gestured down at Sherlock's bare toes curled into the cushion beneath him.

"Sitting."

"I know the obvious, Sherlock," John said with a roll of his eyes. "I meant _this! _The touching! What do you mean by it?"

"Do I have to mean anything by it? We're friends. It isn't otherworldly for friends to share casual contact," Sherlock replied, wiggling his toes.

John gave a shrill sort of giggle and lifted off the sofa somewhat. Settling back down, he retorted, "Don't _do _that, it tickles!"

Sherlock smiled and drew himself closer, draping one arm behind John's head on the sofa. "Help me dry my hair."

John sent a look. "Are you serious?"

Sherlock nodded and droplets of water dripped onto his nose. "Yes. Can't be bothered to do it myself, but if it goes undone, it might get the furniture wet, and I know what will annoy you. So you might as well spare yourself the trouble and –"

"Yeah, yeah, I get it," John muttered as he snatched the towel from around Sherlock's shoulders. He tried at an awkward angle to rub dry Sherlock's hair, but Sherlock removed the towel from John's hands and held it aloft.

"Here, spread your legs."

"What!" John pinked, his eyes wide.

"If I sit on the floor between them and you lean forward, it will be an easier reach." Sherlock suggested.

John blinked. "This isn't normal." But even so, he did as instructed and Sherlock eased himself onto the floor, scooting to sit between John's resting, socked feet. He closed his eyes and tilted his head back, and John moves his hands over the towel, clenching to squeeze out the excess water, rubbing to absorb the little remaining.

"Finished?" Sherlock remarked as John's hands stilled on his scalp and the towel blocked Sherlock's vision. The towel was cold but John's hands radiated heat, and Sherlock ached to feel the bare pads of John's thumbs and fingers on his hair, against his neck, along his face and neck. Or on his prick.

"…Huh? Yeah," John said after a moment. He immediately shucked off the towel and tossed it onto the floor. He gently kicked the side of Sherlock's bum with his left foot. "Now get up and go do whatever it is you do between cases when you're not going stir-crazy."

Little did John know, Sherlock did have a case currently, but that case was John himself.

Sherlock grabbed the towel and bundled it up in his hands, clutching it to his chest. He stood and turned 'round to face John. "Thank you," he murmured, and then proceeded to lean down and kiss John on the mouth.

John reacted instantly, shoving Sherlock away and covering his lips with his hand. "What the fuck was that?"

"A kiss," Sherlock said, again stating the obvious. He smirked this time.

"And what made you think it was okay to do that?" John spat back, getting up. Sherlock got out of his way and continued to force down a smile. John was red in the face. "I didn't ask for it! And I sure as hell didn't _expect _it for doing something as simple as toweling off your mop of hair!"

"I apologise. Here, allow me to be more direct." Sherlock stepped closer and John tensed. He placed a hand on John's cheek. Leaning in, he murmured, "I want to be closer to you, John. I want to kiss you, hold you, find any excuse to touch you." And he moved to John's ear and whispered, "And I want to make love to you."

John was quiet and still for a lasting moment, and then he shoved Sherlock hard enough to send him backward, landing on his rear on the sofa. "You asshole!" John hissed the word, "That's what this is about? All of this, since I told you about me?"

"…Well, not all of it, really, but yes, you could say it had to do with a great deal of it," Sherlock confessed cautiously.

John flared at that. He addressed hotly, "Do you have any idea how insulting and humiliating that is? You find out I'm a virgin and you feel the need to remedy it like it's another one of your puzzles that needs tending to, solving! You post all those pictures around the flat to test if I'm truly asexual or what, and then parade around naked to top it all off! It's bloody rude and possibly the worst thing a friend could do, but you don't care, do you? You have no respect for me, or my sexuality in the least!"

And he turned and stormed out of the room, leaving Sherlock to mull it over. Well, that hadn't gone as planned. So much for the science of seduction.

Sherlock sighed. He stood, paced around a bit, and blew air out his mouth as he ran a hand through his damp curls, ruffling the dark locks before pinching the bridge of his nose.

Oh, he certainly fucked this one up, didn't he? He thought about everything… except John's feelings on the matter. He didn't even consider such a reaction because he didn't understand why some people got so touchy about these things. And his intentions were good, weren't they? He loved John, admittedly, and saw this as an opening. He saw it as a possibility that he could be with John, unlike what he original thought.

He selfishly went after what he wanted because he thought it would benefit both of them. Sherlock, for himself, had hated being a virgin. He couldn't wait to get rid of the status, because it was set by society as a _thing, _and Sherlock thought it was tedious to be ridiculed as a teenager for still having that shred of innocence, so the first boyfriend he could nab, he slept with within a week of dating. He failed to see how some people value it, wait for the right person, and so on. He failed to think about anyone but himself, and tried to justify it, but in all the wrong ways.

_Ohh._

Grunting, Sherlock followed John upstairs to his bedroom, knocking for once as he waited outside the closed door.

"Bugger off, Sherlock!" John yelled through the wood, and Sherlock flinched, having expected a quieter, more annoyed tone and not a ferocious holler.

"I was wrong," Sherlock supplied as a response. He sighed and tapped his forehead against the wood. "That night I came to you about this… and when I got my answer… I thought it meant I could finally try to pursue a relationship with you. And I wasn't wrong about everything, was I? You can't be asexual entirely; you displayed signs of arousal around me, particularly when I was nude. Are you demi-sexual, then? You can feel desire, but only for those you feel strongly about? Because that's why I wanted any of this, John. I do… care about you, you know," he said through the door, sighing and feeling his own breath rebound and strike him in the face. "But I didn't think it through. I didn't factor in your side of the matter."

"Ain't that the truth," John scoffed, but his voice was at a much lower octave, which Sherlock took as a good sign.

"I understand that you're very angry with me –"

"_Incredibly furious, _actually," John corrected.

"But I was hoping I could start over. Please, John?" the detective begged, placing a hand against the door, as if reaching out to the army doctor just beyond it.

He heard shuffling, pictured John's exact movements, and then footsteps leading from the bed to the door. It unlocked and swung open, and Sherlock took a step back to keep from falling forward. "Dates. If you want to be with me like that, I expect dates. Real ones, not just what we do normally while on cases. And I won't do the traditional stuff, since it probably bores you. We can get creative, I guess, but still. Proper dating." He sighed and frowned, adding, "Although I don't know why you feel the need to label me so much. I guess I agree that, if I had a sexuality label, demi makes sense. But why does it matter?"

"So I know where your sexual boundaries lie. I am blatantly homosexual, and you are aware of mine. I wanted to be sure of yours. But yes," Sherlock agreed, "Dating sounds like the way to go about this, and concerning us, sexuality doesn't matter. Only our relationship does, and I have already made a mistake with that," And he says this because it's true, and because, at this point, he was willing to do anything not to have John mad at him.

"Good, glad we're on the same page." He paused, looking Sherlock over; probably checking for sincerity. Satisfied that Sherlock was being sincere, John replied sternly, "Nevertheless, I decide when we have sex. No trying to seduce me, no pressuring me into it like you have been, because that's shitty of you. _I'll_ come to _you_ when _I_ am bloody ready and want it."

"Perfectly acceptable," Sherlock conceded, although he did deflate a little. That could take weeks; months, even! But fine. _Fine._ Anything John wanted.

The shorter man nodded and left his door open as he turned away, apparently about to change for bed. "Good. Glad we have that established." He paused, considered something, but seemed to change his mind. He said, "Goodnight, Sherlock," in place of whatever else, and then dismissed him.


	4. To Have A Sex Drive

**A/N: Okay, after writing that, I fele the need to go re-read 'A Cure For Boredom' by emmagrant01 on AO3. :D**

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They dated for three weeks before John got too restless.

He didn't think it would be like this. And he lasted for as long as he could, sticking strictly to kissing and hand-holding and hugging and cuddling (all of which felt very surreal; him, doing these things with Sherlock Holmes? He honestly hadn't the faintest idea how it was possible, but here it was, happening to him).

He wanted to wait at least a full month, or even a week or so more than that, but when it came down to it, John actually… really… loved Sherlock. And it pumped him so full of all the chemicals Sherlock liked to rattle off like the alphabet that he was about to burst from them if he didn't find release elsewhere soon.

He took one look at Sherlock's neck and collarbones peeking out of his button-up shirt, or the way the buttons were stretched over his chest, or how certain trousers were too tight in the crotch area and it _showed, _and knowing he could have that, taste it and feel it all over…

Well, it drove him a little mad, trying to hold himself back. He was never a sexual person, but Sherlock was an anomaly. After the door was opened for John, telling him that it was okay to have the detective, Sherlock became the sort of anomaly that John wanted to make a slow, sensual study of.

And with the way Sherlock eyed him sometimes, looking him up and down, eyes raking over John's body – it was evident that the restraint was reciprocated, and the sentiment was the same.

It was back and forth, indirect temptation, and sad to say, John had to be the one to cave first or else it would never happen, because Sherlock respected John enough not to cross the line he laid down when this began: _I decide when we have sex. I will come to you about it when I am bloody ready and want it._

And now was the time.

They came home from a rather complicated case's wrap-up, the smell of Scotland Yard's offices a bit rank on his clothing and skin.

"I'm going to take a quick shower," John commented idly as he shrugged off his jacket. He made his way to the bathroom while Sherlock busied himself with making way for new experiments by clearing away his most recent one, the one that had been pertinent to the latest case.

In the shower, that was when it dawned on John that he was aching to have sex. Jonesing for it like Sherlock often does for a cigarette.

It was as though his sex drive was switched from lukewarm to boiling in a matter of minutes. It made him shiver all over, the shower water running of his skin, giving him goosebumps due to the internal/external contrast. He felt arousal pool in his groin like a coiling snake, and all at the thought that he could just walk out there and say it, and he would _get _it, no slow lead-up or foreplay necessary. He could see that naked body again, feel it against his own, skin on skin, and –

John grit his teeth and didn't need to look down to know that his prick was half-erect already. He turned off the water and stepped out of the stall. He dabbed himself mostly dry, ruffled his hair, and tied his towel around his waist loosely. The bulge was apparent; he didn't care. With a flushed face, he left the steaming bathroom and walked into the living room.

Sherlock was in his chair, staring at the fire, perhaps lost in thought. But John's showerfresh scent jarred him from it, and he turned his head to look where John was standing behind his own armchair. And as Sherlock's eyes greedily took in John's state, it took him less then a second to deduce aloud, "Now?"

"Right fucking now, yes," John returned breathlessly, and he lost a bit of his courage as Sherlock stood and moves gracefully around the chairs to stand in front of him, taking him by the face and pressing their mouths together, his eyes closed.

John permitted his own lids to lower until everything went black and he could feel Sherlock's tongue prodding his lips. He opened his mouth and lifted his hands to begin unbuttoning Sherlock's shirt. Sherlock tugged on John's bottom lip, earning a groan, and then stated, "This is inefficient. Go to my room. I'll be right behind you."

John giggled at the unintended innuendo tacked onto the end as he turned and went where directed. Sherlock, meanwhile made hasty work of stripping himself bare, tossing his clothes onto the back of John's armchair, since it was nearby and convenient. Then he walked down the hall to his room and shut the door behind him. John was on his bed, sitting, and Sherlock crawled onto it and leaned on all fours between John's legs, his mouth meeting John's throat before John can speak.

"Go easy on me," John whispered. "I'm new to this, remember?"

"How could I forget?" Sherlock teased as he ran a hand up John's leg, stopping at the towel still around his waist. Sherlock made no offensive remark about John leaving the quasi-garment on and instead slowly untied it and, kissing John, had him lift his hips so Sherlock could toss the damp cloth onto the floor.

He eased John onto his back and moved a knee between John's legs, brushing his inner thigh. John made a soft noise and his legs locked together when Sherlock put a hand between them to wrap slackly around the base of John's erection.

Sherlock worked him with a few brief pumps, careful and tender, before sliding his hand up John's abdomen and rubbing it over his left pectoral, feeling out his soft chest hair, thumbing his nipple, and mapping out the scar on his left shoulder.

John's kisses became increasingly clumsy as Sherlock felt along his body. Sherlock released his mouth, then, and chose to kiss petal-soft along his neck and across his collarbones and between his pectorals, kissing above his heart.

John huffed an embarrassed laugh, not accustomed in the least to having anyone be so gentle with him, nearly worshiping his body as he moved down it, eyelashes fluttering, eyes clearly open, taking in the sights as he placed scattered kisses in places he thought deserved proper attention. "Who would have pegged the great Sherlock Holmes as a tender lover?" John said not unkindly, his voice quiet.

Sherlock glances up from under his brows and they lifted as his whole face lit up with a rarely genuine smile. "No one. Because I have never been anyone's lover. I have had sex, of course, but I have never loved the person I partook in it with."

"But you love me," John said. "Of course you must. You wouldn't have been so patient and gentle if you didn't." And his tone was pure awe and he felt a flood of flattery and happiness at the thought, and it brightened his insides.

Sherlock nodded, moving down between John's legs and raising his knees. John planted his feet firmly on the mattress and felt his breathing pick up into high gear as he peered down at Sherlock, watching the taller man press kisses along John's inner thigh, moving down the back of it as he hiked up his leg with one hand, the other propped on the bed to keep him upright where he lay on his stomach, legs dangling off the end of his bed.

His tongue poked out and licked lightly down John's thigh until he reached the bottom of one cheek, and he kissed it. Then he moved inward, and John's length dribbled a droplet of pre-come from the sheer anticipation and intimacy of it.

And then John blanked for a failing second because he never knew what the hubbub was about when it came to someone's mouth on genitalia, but he would be damned if Sherlock's tongue and lips on his balls and working up along his shaft was the best damn thing he had ever felt in his life. He gasped and craned his neck back and gripped the sheets, trying to focus as Sherlock's warm mouth closed around the head and sucked hard, tongue swirling along the slit, lapping off the bit of pre-come that formed there moments ago.

John felt dizzy. When Sherlock removed his mouth, John exhaled loudly and dropped his head onto the pillows, trying to breathe.

"You're very sensitive," Sherlock noted quietly, sitting up and leaning over John, looking him in the (flushed) face. "Are all virgins that way? I've never dealt with one before, and I don't recall being this sensitive to stimuli myself."

"Only ones that hardly touch themselves and waited way too many years to be with someone to have gained any sort of idea what it feels like to have someone touch them like that," John replied at length, his heart hammering in his ears. "So don't be surprised if I don't last very long."

"Then I better get to business," Sherlock said with a smile. He kissed John and felt up along his sides, ghosting over his ribs. "How far did you wish to go tonight?"

"Thank you for asking first," John murmured, "Because I don't think I could do the full-anal thing right out of the gate."

"I had. It was a mistake, which is why I asked," Sherlock answered truthfully. It had been a mistake; he wanted to be rid of his virginity at the time, it was true, but hadn't meant to go the full mile, and he didn't very much care for the sore burn in his rear the following morning because his partner wasn't considerate enough of him, and didn't factor in that Sherlock had never before put anything in there, ever. "I have other plans, then. Roll onto your side for me?"

John did so, not knowing entirely what to expect. He brought one arm up under the pillow and fisted the top of it as he nested his head into it. He could smell Sherlock on the pillow and it was high-inducing, smelling his natural scent so closely, different than how it smelled actually on his body and clothing. He closed his eyes and felt Sherlock shift to lie behind him, snuggling up close, his erection hard and warm and wet against his cleft. Hang on, wet? – Oh. He recalled, then, hearing a drawer open and close and something slick for a moment before he felt Sherlock against him. That must have been Sherlock applying lubrication to his prick.

Sherlock's hand gripped John's hip and he leaned in and kissed the top of John's left shoulder, following the curve with kisses until he was planting them softly on John's trapezius and the back of his neck. Then Sherlock's hand slid down John's pelvic bone to his member, gripping and rubbing the thumb as far up and down it as he could reach.

John bit the inside of his cheek and leaned back into Sherlock's body, his free hand reaching behind himself to grip Sherlock's arse.

Sherlock began to rock and rut up against John's back, length sliding between John's cheeks and head touching the base of his spine with every little rub upward, moving in time with his hand on John's length. It was strange but not unpleasant; it felt oddly delicious, actually, the way Sherlock slid along John's skin and worked along John's arse. And Sherlock's grip and rhythm and methods of wanking John off was of the highest skill' at least, John thought so. It felt phenomenal, Sherlock's fist around him, and he shallowly thrusted up into it and ground back against Sherlock's prick, enjoying the sound that emitted from Sherlock's mouth, breathy and hot in John's ear. And he really, really liked the sparks of pleasure washing over him and electrifying him in waves throughout his body, leaving his toes tingling and his heart as flighty as a butterfly.

All too quickly, Sherlock gave a quick twist to John's prick, and the pleasure built up to soaring, whitening levels. John cried out as a few ropes of semen uncontrollably left his body while he clenched a fistful of Sherlock's arse cheek in his hand. The army doctor shuddered with orgasm, his brain forgetting how overwhelmingly lovely that particular mix of chemicals was.

Panting, John tried to calm down his body while Sherlock whined and rubbing harder against him, and maybe it was the virginal experience, but John felt a little guilty for reaching bliss so soon in the act.

So he Stilled Sherlock with a pat to his thigh and rolled onto his other side until he was facing the dark-haired man. "Here, let me." And he gently pushed Sherlock onto his beck and slithered down until he was eyelevel with Sherlock's arousal.

"John, you don't have to feel obligated to –" the detective huffed huskily, propping himself up on his hands. His pupils were blown wider than they were earlier, and his cheeks were tinted a rarely seen shade of pink.

"Hey, I'm the virgin here," John said, "And that means I want to know what it tastes like, what _you_ taste like, and I want to know if I can be any good at this. Let me find out."

Sherlock swallowed thickly with a spark of further arousal and nodded, closing his eyes and angling his head back as he submitted to John's wishes.

John took the base in one hand and flicked out his tongue, touching it to the shaft and giving a short lick upward. Sherlock hummed, and John took that as encouragement to continue.

He pretended it was a particularly good lollipop or Popsicle, lapping and suckling and swirling his tongue, taking as much as he could comfortably fit into his mouth and trying his damndest not to knick poor Sherlock with his teeth.

The ridges of his teeth rubbed a little anyway. Sherlock sucked in air, but it sounded like he liked it, so John didn't try as hard to avoid it next time. He was slow, savouring the odd, salty-tangy skin-taste, and faintly he tasted honey, and wondered if that was the flavour of the lube or if Sherlock naturally tasted a little caramelized, a little sweet.

It was when he took the tip into his lips but kept his teeth closed, moving his lips and running the top across his teeth, Sherlock jerked backward, out of John's reach, and yanked him up so spare him getting a load shot in his face. He trembled, legs clenching John's waist as Sherlock kissed him, groaning into John's mouth and stretching up into John's body, arcing off the bed as he rode out his orgasm.

Breathless, Sherlock settled John atop his torso and held him there, idly stroking his hair. "No coordination or style or pattern, and certainly inexperienced and messy – I have your saliva coating my testicles, you know – but not the worst I've had."

"Critic," John muttered as he kissed Sherlock's chest and along the one collarbone he could reach. He ran a hand casually up and down Sherlock's side. "What did you expect? For me to be a natural? And besides, I made you come, didn't I?"

Sherlock grinned and nuzzled down into John's hair, his nose tickling John's right ear. He brought his legs up to wrap around John's, and it was more or less like being with a friendly python, but somewhat adorable. "You did, and I think, with practice, you'll be just as good as I am at giving oral. One day."

"Well, you hardly started on me. How should I know how good you are, and what to take notes on?" John added with a smirk of his own.

"Hmm, valid point, Doctor Watson," Sherlock said very professionally, as if they weren't talking about sex at all. "I will have to teach you well, then. We can start tomorrow morning."

John flushed a deep crimson. "Sounds good," he said quietly, shifting a little to make himself more comfortable. "But for right now, I kind of just want to sleep. Uhg, but sex is so messy. I feel like I should shower again."

"Yes, that is the trouble with sex," Sherlock agreed offhandedly, with a yawn. "Drowsiness and sticky substances. But after skipping sleep for so many days because of our recent case, I am opting not to move, and because I am selfish, I demand you not move, either. So you will have to forget about it for the night. We'll deal with it in the morning."

"Fine, fine," John sighed, but he really didn't mind as much. It felt nice, here in Sherlock's arms, their skin touching in so many wonderful places. He rather liked it. And John didn't think sex with just anyone could be this enjoyable. Only Sherlock.

"Goodnight, then, John," Sherlock murmured. John lifted his head to glance briefly at Sherlock's alarm clock. It was past one in the morning. My, how time flew by. They got home slightly under two hours ago.

"Goodnight, love," John said sleepily, and if Sherlock noticed the slip, he seemed content with it, because he didn't comment on it.


End file.
